Old Habits
by Nothing Short of Pride
Summary: Old habits die hard. Ludwig almost pays the price for one of his. Written ages ago, posted recently. T for descriptions of violence.


His fingers closed around the cold metal with a jerk that was purely reflex. It scared him sometimes, how easily the grip came to him, how quick his muscles were to remember the precise hold, and how eager his hands were to be holding the weapon once more. Without thinking, he rolled over in bed, shoving the intruder down just long enough to press the cold barrel to their forehead and pull the trigger.

It was only after Ludwig realized that there had been no resounding bang - that the safety lock had been in place - that his head began to clear.

He was coated in a fine sheen of cold sweat, his limbs shaking. His hand stood out, a pale ghostly creature of its own in the darkness, curled around the small hand pistol, veins twitching with agitation just under the skin. His other hand still held the intruder in place, his grip firm on their neck. He could feel the heat that emanated from the intruder and their pulse thrumming quickly under his hand. Shallow breathing filled the space between the two as Ludwig's unlucky victim struggled to gather enough air to fill their lungs. For half a moment Ludwig wondered why the intruder did not fight against his tight grip, for they were clearly restricted by it.

A simple glance downward answered that quickly.

Wide brown eyes stared back at him with surprising calm. Fear, naturally, was written on Feliciano's face, even as his color darkened with his struggle for breath, but there was an unnerving understanding there as well, as if the man already knew how he'd ended up in this position. After a long moment, Ludwig let loose a strangled breath, wrenching his hand away from Feliciano's neck, followed almost instantaneously by the Italian's grateful inhale. He felt his stomach churn. _Of course _it was only Feliciano who had disturbed him this late at night. Who else would be that persistent, or that downright idiotic? Feliciano had restarted his tradition of wheedling his way into Ludwig's bed over a year ago.

_And you almost shot him. _

Suddenly Ludwig's churning stomach decided to turn against him. With a lurch, Ludwig let the pistol fall to the sheets, stumbling toward the adjacent bathroom just in time to collapse over the porcelain bowl and relieve his stomach of nearly all of its contents. Over the sound of his own retching, Ludwig could faintly hear Feliciano's calls of concern, but they barely registered.

It was too similar to the dream Feliciano had awoken him from. No, not a dream. Dreams were pleasant, or at the very least, senseless. This was a nightmare – like all the other ones he'd been plagued with in the last few decades. Ever since then… Ludwig had never been able to properly sleep. He'd never stopped sleeping with a gun under his pillow.

As he caught his breath, chest heaving as his body recovered from the violent spasms that accompanied retching, the image that had caused the illness resurfaced. Perhaps it was simply a product of the violence he'd been exposed to in his lifetime, but the macabre scene was all too easy for Ludwig to picture. He could hear the bang of a gun, fired point blank, the crack and squelch of bone and flesh. Worse, he could hear the guttering, nearly instantaneous halt of heavy breathing. It was far too easy to feel the pistol recoil in his hand, and the warm smattering of blood against his skin. He could picture all too plainly the wide glassy stare that would have greeted him, rather than the fearful one he'd just seen, see the rivulets of red running down Feliciano's forehead, sliding over the bridge of his nose, or the pool of dark liquid staining the pillows beneath his head. By God, he could almost smell the coppery stench of the mess. Ludwig turned his head back over the toilet as he felt the bile rise in his throat once more.

It was difficult at first, to differentiate between the shaking of his exhausted muscles, and that shaking of his shoulders, between the sweat running down his face, and the few tears pressing themselves forcefully, shamefully, from his eyes. He felt ill – far too warm, too sore, too tired, and above all, too terrified and appalled by his own actions.

By that time Feliciano had sunk down behind him, Ludwig was all but passed out there on the bathroom floor. With the soft murmur of quieting words, Ludwig could feel Feliciano pressing himself gently against his back. He almost winced at the touch, feeling at once far too hot and too cold, Feliciano's warmth tipping that delicate balance. Cold wet fingers stroked Ludwig's brow as his heaving chest gently slowed, allowing for more even breaths. The air, which had seemed to have the oxygen sucked out of it, slowly became breathable once more. Ludwig realized Feliciano had turned on the bathroom light in the time since he'd arrived. The light seemed too pale and artificial, particularly compared to the dark abyss that lay just outside the bathroom door. Ludwig groaned quietly…

Yet he never would be able to break the old habit.

The gun would remain under his pillow, safety lock in place, long after Feliciano was able to coax him back to bed.


End file.
